


Card-Carrying Bisexual

by blueeyesandpie



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Pizza Place, Coronavirus, Dean Winchester is Bad at Feelings, Fluff and Smut, Good Friend Charlie Bradbury, M/M, Mentions of past Dean/Lisa, Misunderstandings, One Shot, Past Balthazar/Castiel, Profound Bond Gift Exchange: Quarantine & Chill (Supernatural), Smut, THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED, no one is or gets sick, questionable social distancing practices
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:15:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24834439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueeyesandpie/pseuds/blueeyesandpie
Summary: "Dean's tombstone is going to read “death by sex god” and he can’t even make himself care."OR: Castiel's boyfriend breaks up with him, so Dean invites him to stay at his place until he can find a spot of his own. Dean's only had a crush on Cas since preschool...what could possibly go wrong?
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 33
Kudos: 287
Collections: ProfoundBond Exchange: Quarantine & Chill





	Card-Carrying Bisexual

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CoralQueen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoralQueen/gifts).



> A gift for MayThereAlwaysBeLove for the June Profound Bond gift exchange. I hope you enjoy, my dear! 
> 
> Beta'd by saltyravenclaw0525 - Thank you!

Dean is prepping vegetables in the back room when he feels a hand on his shoulder. Touch is so rare these days that he nearly knocks a box of tomatoes off the counter; only quick reflexes save him from the nightmare of retrieving romas from every corner of the freaking universe. He’s ready to chew poor Alfie a new asshole when he turns, but pulls himself short at the sight of blue eyes and a shock of black hair over a “Got Weed?” t-shirt. There’s also a pair of positively sinful jeans, but Dean forcefully opts not to look at those too closely.

Cas. Of course it’s Cas. 

“Um. Personal space?” Dean says, jerking his chin at the hand still firmly planted on his body. It’s not that he doesn’t want it there. Every fiber in his body is screaming to say nothing; to let that touch continue as long as possible, in fact, because he likes it. They’re in public, however, and there are safety regulations. Crowley may not give a ton of fucks, but some nosy Karen with control issues could really cause trouble for them both.

Cas retreats, but the corners of his face mask visibly shift upward in what Dean can only hope is one of those shit-eating gummy smiles he likes so much. “It’s good to see you upright,” Cas says. He turns to the sink and starts washing his hands as he speaks. 

“You’re just happy I can’t trade turnips while you’re working anymore. Your island’s looking pretty sad, buddy.”

“Maybe a little,” Cas admits with a laugh, and they fall back into their usual work routine as if Dean hadn’t just spent a week waiting for test results while obsessively tracking down every lurid detail he could find about the deadly virus sweeping the planet. 

It isn’t until they’re closing up that Dean starts to suspect something is wrong. Cas is a lot quieter than he usually is, and he’s uncommonly slow about getting his things from the back once they’re done cleaning. Everything about him screams “I don’t want to leave,” actually, which is ridiculous because Dean knows better than anyone that Cas hates Pizza Inferno with every fiber of his being.

“Dude, what’s the matter?” Dean asks when they’re in the parking lot.

Cas shrugs. “Nothing.” 

“Bullshit.” They’re next to the Impala now; Dean leans against the hood and crosses his arms, staring at Cas with all the force he can muster in the flickering light of the street lamps above.

Cas steps away without answering. Dean frowns, but then his friend pulls his mask down and he can see Cas’s face. It’s been three months since he last saw that scruff and Dean thinks his heart might actually stop at the sight. 

“Balthazar and I fought,” Cas says, his dull tone at odds with the tense breadth of his shoulders. “He says I can have him, or I can have my job, but not both. He tried to frame it as concern for his health, but I believe he feels I spend too much time here.”

Dean wishes he could be surprised by the news, but he isn’t. “What a bastard.” 

“You can just say ‘I told you so.’ I believe it is warranted.” Cas’s sardonic half-smile could and has flattened an entire cheerleading squad; Dean doesn’t stand a chance against that kind of weaponry. 

“From your presence I’m guessing you chose your job...so where ya staying?”

Cas looks down, and Dean’s heart drops to meet his gaze on the ground. “Not sure yet, but I was about to head to the Sh-”

“A hotel? Fuck that germ-ridden noise, you’re coming home with me.”

“Dean, we’re supposed to be isolated,” Cas says, ever the pragmatist. 

Dean rolls his eyes upward as he tugs his face mask off. “We already work together, dumbass. We breathe the same germs all day, so whatever you have, I’ll get eventually. You know it’s true, so get in.” 

Cas puts up a symbolic protest, but Dean digs in his heels and insists. Eventually, Cas admits defeat and climbs into Baby with a shrug that says “I did my best,” more clearly than any words could.

Somehow, Dean manages to drive back to the apartment and get Cas set up in the bathroom with fresh towels and clean clothes without spontaneously combusting from the sheer quantity of physical contact after so long in isolation.

Then he’s left alone with the comfortable sound of the shower in his ears and the distinctly uncomfortable reality of his apartment in his face. It’s not like Cas hasn’t seen it exactly as it is a thousand times before, but this time is just plain different since he’ll be staying a while. 

The place is a mess, for starters. Dean’s tired all the time now, it feels like, and since the only person who’s visited him since January is his kid brother (who never comes inside anyways), he hasn’t seen much need to keep the place spick and span. There are dishes in the sink and a used pot on the stove, and there’s random crap stacked on every available surface he can see, including the floor. There’s even a pair of boxers hanging off the back of a chair that have been there at least a week. 

More importantly, the apartment is a shoebox at best. The kitchen is barely big enough for one person to stand in, while the “dining area” boasts a rickety two-chair breakfast set in its tiny square of linoleum glory. The living room isn’t much better, crammed to bursting with an overflowing media hutch, a second-hand coffee table, a mustard-colored loveseat he got off Craigslist approximately ten thousand years ago, and a wall of slightly off-kilter bookshelves. 

Beyond that there’s a bathroom (currently occupied by a very naked Castiel) and a bedroom completely consumed by Dean’s drawing table and the queen-sized memory foam bed that are the only luxuries he has ever permitted himself. 

In short: Where the hell is Cas supposed to _sleep?_

That question will have to be answered later. In the meantime, Dean stacks the dishes a little neater, clears the floor in the living room, puts the dirty clothes where they belong, and even remembers he washed his spare sheets and changes those out. There’s not much to be done about the rest of the place (stacked milk crates and plastic tubs can only organize so much stuff, really), but at least it looks a _little_ less chaotic.

He hems and haws at the mediocre contents of his refrigerator before slapping together a couple of PB&Js, cutting up some peaches he’d forgotten he bought, and dividing up the last of his potato chips. He’s setting plates on the table when Cas emerges from the bedroom wearing Dean’s clothes, scrubbing his hair dry with Dean’s towel, and smelling overwhelmingly of Dean’s shampoo.

 _Fuck me sideways_. That sounds a bit too much like a wish for Dean’s comfort, so he literally and metaphorically retreats into the further chair. “Feel better?” He asks. 

“Much,” Cas says. “Thank you.” He looks at the towel, looks at the food, then half-jogs to the bathroom (presumably to hang the offending bit of fabric up) before collapsing in the chair opposite Dean.

Dean breaks a chip in half, then in half again, as he watches Cas eat. They’re the wavy kind; he focuses on breaking it down to just one ‘ruffle.’ “So, um-” he says finally, “I didn’t think this through very well.” 

Cas looks up from his sandwich, cheeks bulging, and Dean loses track of his thoughts for a second. He collects himself and moves on with surprising ease given the circumstances.

“I can make you a bed on the floor out here if you want,” he says, gesturing to the space he’d cleared in front of the couch, “but I don’t really have much bedding. Plus I gotta say, my bed’s a lot more comfortable if you don’t mind, uh...sharing...until we can get you an air mattress.” He shoves half a sandwich in his mouth at the end, both to keep himself from babbling and to give him an excuse not to respond to whatever Cas says next.

“I’m fine sharing the bed if you are,” Cas says, and there’s something about his demeanor that is almost _mischievous_. As if he knows, somehow, that Dean’s squirming in his seat and dying inside from the thought of _sleeping_ next to this person he’s been in love with since they met twenty two years before.

“Okay then,” Dean manages to get out. 

They both have to work early the next day (“Fuck clopens,” Cas intones solemnly as they brush their teeth, and Dean fist bumps him in silent solidarity), so they head to bed as soon as they’re done eating. 

Dean crawls in first, giving a self-conscious shrug as he settles into his pillow with his face to the wall. He feels Cas slide under the blankets a moment later, and then the desk lamp clicks out. 

“Good night, Dean,” Cas says a little later. He’s turned away as well, Dean can tell, but even on memory foam he can feel the pull of Cas’s body weight on the bed, and wonders how the hell he’s going to survive.  
  


“G’night,” Dean replies, already drifting off. He thinks Cas sighs in response, but that doesn’t make any sense at all. 

-

Dean’s awake, he’s fairly sure, but the warmth and spicy scent of ‘hot dude’ that he’d been drowning in in his dreams is still filling his nose. He squirms a little to relieve the weight across his shoulders, then freezes when he realizes his face is nestled against Cas’s chest. Cas’s other arm is slung over his body ( _that’s the weight_ , his mind supplies uselessly), and their legs are hopelessly intertwined. 

Dean’s never slept like this with anyone in his life—and that’s including Lisa, whom he’d nearly married as an overly-excitable nineteen year old. It’s unusual, even alien, and yet some part of him is screaming _yes_ , _yes, this is right_.

He tries to wiggle away despite his body’s _many_ objections to the idea, but Cas just grumbles sleepily and noses at Dean’s temple. His hips swivel a little as well, and the long, hard length of his erection against Dean’s inner thigh is immediately and utterly unignorable. 

_Christ_. 

There’s an entire drum section going at it in Dean’s chest and all the blood in his body has definitely convened an emergency council in his dick. It’s extremely tempting to just lay back and enjoy the dream come true. However, when Cas starts rocking against him, making sounds Dean’s pretty sure will haunt him for the rest of his life, he realizes he needs to do something or this is going to get really awkward, really fast. 

“Cas,” he tries, but his voice breaks and it comes out barely a whisper. “Cas,” he tries again, this time a bit stronger. “Wake up. Castiel!”

The movement and sound stops, and the soft, warm body pressed against Dean goes stiff. Then Cas exhales sharply, yanking himself away with garbled words somewhere between horror and profanity. He pushes upright and off the bed immediately; Dean can see Cas’s hair sticking up in every direction against the pale square of the window as he shakes himself fully awake. 

“Christ, I’m sorry,” Cas stammers. 

Dean just stares, his brain still foggy from how good it had felt to have Cas so close. “ _Don’t be sorry_ ,” and “ _I ain’t mad, I understand,_ ” fight for freedom, and by the time he settles on “ _Get back in bed, dumbass,_ ” Cas is out the door. 

It takes two seconds for Dean to be up and after him, physically blocking the front door when Cas makes like he’s going to take off completely. “Dude, where are you going? It’s three am. You don’t have to leave, okay? Just- just stay. Please.”

Cas’s face goes on a journey to put Frodo’s hike to Mount Doom to shame, but eventually his shoulders slump. “I’ll take the couch,” he says. He immediately flops on the loveseat and closes his eyes as if he’s actually going to sleep just like that, with his shoes on and his head uncomfortably cricked against the worn arm. 

Once Dean is moderately confident Cas isn’t going to sneak out the second his back is turned, he grabs the throw blanket off the floor and puts it on the coffee table within easy grabbing reach. Then he tiptoes back to his uncomfortably cold, empty bed.

When he stumbles into the kitchen the next morning in a panic because he hit snooze one too many times, the dishes are clean, the blanket is neatly folded, and Cas is gone.

-

Cas tries to no-call, no-show. He _tries_ , because as soon as it becomes apparent he isn’t coming into work, Dean ‘calls in’ for him. The last thing the guy needs is to lose his job in the middle of a freaking pandemic because Dean doesn’t know how to use his words in a timely fashion.

“Tell him that the next time he eats bad fish, _he_ needs to be the one to tell me about it,” Crowley grumbles in response, but he’s quick to go back to the computer to do...whatever it is he does all day...and Dean wonders, yet again, how the place actually stays in business. 

Dean works his shift with a knot in his stomach. He sends Cas a couple of texts early on, then checks his phone so frequently that even Charlie, queen of texting under the counter during rush, takes notice. At first she just teases him about his distraction, but once they’re cleaning together in the afternoon lull, she moves in for the kill. 

“It’s Cas, isn’t it?” She asks in an undertone, ever mindful of the weird acoustics of this place that make it so Crowley, seated on the opposite side of the walk in, can potentially hear every word spoken.

Dean twists to squint at her over the top of his mask as he scrapes out the oven. “What?”

“Don’t play dumb, Dean. You don’t really know where he is, do you?” 

From the set of Charlie's eyebrows, he isn’t getting out of this one. “I don’t,” he admits. 

“And?”

He closes the oven with a little more force than is strictly necessary, then tosses the brush on top. “We had a, uh, misunderstanding. He took off and isn’t answering my calls,” he says finally. 

“That’s not a great way for a guy to treat his boyfriend,” Charlie observes, and Dean promptly trips over abso-fucking-lutely nothing and nearly lands on his face. “Wait, wait. Was that supposed to be a secret? I’m so sorry!” 

“Son of a bitch,” Dean groans, and that’s how he ends up walking Charlie Bradbury home after work, so he can explain the whole hairy situation (with lifelong crush carefully edited out) away from their boss’s prying ears.

“Flip the script: in his shoes, you’d be mortified, right?” Charlie says once they’re standing outside the townhouse she shares with Gilda and Dorothy. “You’d jet so fast you’d leave scorch marks.” 

Unfortunately, she’s right, not that Dean wants to think about it too much. “Yeah, yeah I know. I’m not mad at him, you know? Of course he’s embarrassed. I just- I’m worried. His mom hates him, his boyfriend kicked him out, he doesn’t have a car. Where the hell is he?”

Charlie cocks her head to the side, an odd expression on her face.“Air hugs, Winchester. I think you’re gonna need them when you realize what you’re floating in ain’t just a river.” With that puzzling statement, she spreads her arms wide and pretends to give him a hug, then heads inside. 

When he gets home, it’s to find Cas sitting on the stoop outside, wearing those damn jeans again, but with Dean’s shirt on top. Dean’s heart skips a beat, but then he realizes Cas is talking to a tall man with dirty brown hair and a slim-fit jacket and his hope dies before it’s properly born. 

“Bonjour,” Balthazar says in that stuffy accent of his. “I'm here to steal Cassie from your tender ministrations."

“Steal away, it’s a free country,” Dean says and is genuinely shocked at how bitter he sounds.

Rather than stick around to see the fallout from his unexpected saltiness, he navigates around them and unlocks his door. He kicks his shoes off in the entry, slings his bag on the loveseat, then heads for the bedroom, intent on removing the fifteen layers of flour and dried tomato sauce that inevitably get caked into his clothes when he works. 

When he comes out to survey his dinner possibilities, Cas is leaning against his kitchen sink. 

“We need to talk, Dean,” he says in that voice like thunder and gravel had a love child.

“Why?” Dean asks, reaching around Cas to tug the fridge open and grab a beer. “Balthazar’s waiting, isn’t he?” Cas just stares at him, and Dean gets the distinct impression he made a wrong turn a few stops back and needs to make his way back to the GPS-recommended route. “You aren’t going back with him?” He asks in a slightly less acidic tone. 

“Fuck no. I never told him I’d be here in the first place, but it’s not like I’d go anywhere else, you know?” That admission definitely shouldn’t feel as good as it does. Dean knows this, but he can’t stop the warmth in his gut from spreading. 

Dean cracks open the beer and settles against the counter across from Cas, and a little to the side. “I’ve been worried,” he says in a neutral tone. “You should answer your phone sometimes.” 

Cas fishes in his pocket and tosses his phone on the counter. The screen is shattered, the case torn up and broken; Dean’s not sure he’s seen a device that destroyed since Dad took a sledgehammer to his Razr in the early aughts. 

“I couldn’t,” Cas says somewhat unnecessarily. “My phone fell out of my pocket this morning and by the time I realized it was gone, someone had run over it.” 

“You could have come by work or-” Dean cuts himself off with a groan, his annoyance deflating like a loose balloon. “Of course you couldn’t, Crowley would have reamed your ass.”

They stare at each other in the half-lit silence of the tiny kitchen for a few awkward minutes, and Dean thinks of all the things he wants to say—all the things he’s _ever_ wanted to say—to Castiel Novak. There’s a lot, and he doesn’t know where to begin, so he starts with the safe, but inane. “I told Crowley you have food poisoning.”

“Which did me in, the pickled herring or the squid sushi?” 

“You know me too well,” Dean shoots back, and they share a chuckle that quickly fades beneath the weight of everything else still to be discussed.

“I’m sorry about last night,” Cas says finally. “Sharing a bed with a guy who doesn’t like guys rarely ends well. I should have taken the floor, but honestly my back was killing me, so I thought...what’s the harm, just for one night?”

Dean wets his lips. Coming out is never easy, no matter how many times he’s done it, no matter who the person is. This is years overdue though, so he opens his mouth and plows ahead. “That’s not true.”

“What, you think I _purposefully_ -” 

“No! Not you. It’s me. I do like guys. I should have said something a long time ago. ”

“ _What?_ ”

Dean reaches into his own pocket this time, and pulls out his wallet. “Card-carrying bisexual. See?” From one of the credit card slots he pulls a business card, banded blue and purple and pink, and hands it to Cas. Charlie got it for him at Pride a couple years ago and Dean’s carried it ever since: a silent, private reminder of his own validity. 

Cas examines the bit of paper carefully, his fingers trembling as they run over the velvet-smooth surface, before looking up with wounded eyes. “It’s each person’s choice when or if they share their identity with others,” he says, “but...I wish you had told me, Dean.” 

“I should have,” Dean repeats, as he takes the card back and tucks it away.

“Why didn’t you?”

It’s now or never, Dean knows that, but the plain truth is too big, too scary, to just say outright, so he hedges a little at first. “When humans want something really bad...they lie,” he says.

Cas snorts his opinion of that particular evasion.

“I wanted you,” Dean says finally, and the sharp intake from across the narrow kitchen is impossible to miss. “But if I told you I liked you, and you didn’t want me, I would lose you completely. I couldn’t risk it. I couldn’t even risk the _chance_ of it.”

The silence that follows is so heavy and so long that Dean finally risks a glance upward through his eyelashes while his teeth wreak havoc on his lower lip. Cas looks like he’s been hit by a train, his eyes wide and his mouth half open, fingers clenched around the edge of the counter like he’s afraid he might fall through the floor. 

“You are an idiot,” Cas says, and the tension breaks like waves on a cliff.

Dean’s not quite sure what happens next; whether he moves first, or Cas does. What he does know is that one second he’s sitting there, his heart out for Cas to smash, and the next his arms are wrapped around solid shoulders, there’s a hand curved around his ass almost possessively, and there’s another cupping his jaw. Better yet, ice blue eyes are studying his face like he’s the only thing on the menu, and Dean is more than happy to deliver.

“Do you have any idea how long I’ve loved you?” Cas whispers-laughs, the words blowing little gusts of air over Dean’s mouth that light him up from the inside out. “And you’ve sat there this whole time thinking I _didn’t want you_? Dean, I—”

The words cut off when Dean leans in, pressing his mouth firmly against Castiel’s. Cas’s lips are warm and plump, and part at the merest nudge of Dean’s tongue. Cas pushes his whole body forward insistently and Dean lets himself be pressed backward, the line of the counter against his lower back playing a pleasant counterpoint to the feel of Cas’s mouth on his own. 

They kiss, hot and frantic, messy and wet, until Dean’s certain every trace of his old fear has been utterly seared away by the heat of it all. Then Cas’s mouth shifts to leave a trail of hot kisses along Dean’s jaw, and Dean’s brain actually short circuits. His eyes roll up in his head and he emits an embarrassingly high-pitched groan, hands scrambling to touch skin, any skin, rather than the thin fabric currently in his way. 

Cas pulls away, and Dean feels everything slip sideways, hurt and anxiety rearing their ugly heads at the loss of contact. But then he realizes Cas is just shrugging off his shirt, and Dean can finally drink in that body without fear of being caught out. His fingers explore on their own, then, running along every line and brushing lightly over every smooth muscle. It doesn’t seem real, somehow, that he gets to touch Cas this way, but if this is just a dream, it isn’t one he wants to wake from. 

“Let’s—” Dean isn’t sure what he means to say, but thankfully he doesn’t have to find out. 

Cas turns on his heel and takes off, leaving Dean no choice but to follow him away, through the living room, and down the short hall. He sheds clothes as he goes, tripping and stumbling over his own feet as he tugs off socks and pants and boxers and shirt. He reaches the door to find Cas undoing his fly at the foot of the bed, face tilted up and eyes half-closed as if lost in fantasy. 

A second later he bends, pushing his jeans and boxers down. When he straightens he’s lazily stroking his cock and his eyes are fixed on Dean. There’s no trace of distant fantasy there, only solid, unquenchable desire. Dean swallows, suddenly intimidated.

“Come here,” Cas says, and despite the smoulder in his gaze, his voice is gentle and warm. 

Dean spans the distance between them in three steps, leaning in to catch Cas’s bottom lip between his teeth as soon as he’s within reach. From there it’s laughing and pushing, kisses and caresses, stumbling back and forth as they explore each other’s bodies with needy hands and hungry lips. 

Eventually they make it to the bed, falling side by side on the mattress as they continue to kiss and explore. They break apart once they’re horizontal, though Dean keeps his hand firmly on Cas’s chest. He can feel Cas’s heart pounding in there, galloping just as fast as his own, and suddenly it seems ridiculous to keep his feelings inside when Cas already shared his.

“I’ve loved you since we fought over that stupid giraffe in preschool,” he says. “I didn’t know boys could love boys back then, but I did, I loved you. I still do.” Cas inhales like he just won the lottery and they kiss again; if the caress is suspiciously damp and salty, both of them know better than to mention it. 

Sweetness turns to passion again with barely a breath between, and Dean rolls them over until he’s straddling Cas’s thighs, looking down at his friend—his lover—laid out beneath him. Cas visibly fights to stay still as he looks up, his entire body shuddering with need.

_Fuck, that’s hot._

Dean leans down to kiss Cas on the lips, then slides down a little further, littering his throat and shoulders and chest with kisses, licks, and little bites. He bends his body down to wrap his lips around a small pink nipple and Cas groans in response, his hips pushing upward insistently. There’s little relief to be found that way, however, and Cas actually growls, his hands grabbing at Dean’s ass so hard there will likely be bruises in the morning.

“What, teasing ain’t your thing?” Dean laughs as he bites at Cas’s nipple again; the growl tips upward into something deliciously close to an outright moan. He moves to the other side, lips merciless as his fingers move up to tweak at the one he just abandoned, delighting in every new sound he elicits from his partner.

The entire world upends and the next thing Dean knows, he’s the goddamn little spoon, with Cas’s cock nestled against his cheeks and an arm pinning them together around his middle. His cock _aches_ with the need to be touched, so he reaches down and starts to stroke himself, one leg cocked up so Cas can see.

Cas watches for a while, breath coming in uneven, sharp gasps and his cock getting ever harder between them. Soon enough, however, he says “where’s the lube?” 

Dean forgets all about getting himself off in favor of the promise of that question. He reaches for the bed stand and gets the bottle out of the drawer, then pulls a strip of condoms out as well for good measure. 

Lips on the back of his neck reward him for that foresight. “How do you want to do this?” Cas asks, his fingers trailing lightly up Dean’s length, then massaging his frenulum with devastating effect. “I want _everything_ with you, Dean.” 

“God, just fuck me,” Dean says, brazenly rubbing his ass against Cas’s cock. “We can talk about other stuff later. Right now just— _fuck!_ —wreck me, Cas. Fill me up, God, please.” He’s going to have to have a conversation with himself later about how easily Cas reduced him to actual freaking begging, but for now he’s content to let the words spill, especially since Cas seems to like them a whole hell of a lot. 

Cas rolls them forward until Dean’s on his knees, but face down in the bed. He hears the familiar _snick_ of the cap opening, then there’s cool liquid and warm fingers sliding along his crack and circling his hole. When Cas pushes a finger in, Dean has to bite back a gasp at the sensation.

“Are you a virgin?” Cas asks in a surprised tone, the finger disappearing as if slapped.

“No!” Dean huffs out, laughing despite himself. “God no, I’m twenty-six, man, I’ve been around the block. It’s just been awhile.” He can feel Cas relax against him. For some reason, it makes him wish he could have said yes. What would it have been like, really, for Cas to be his first?

The thought is fleeting, chased away without a trace by Cas’s finger sliding inside him once more. He’s used to perfunctory finger work at best, so he’s completely blindsided when Cas all but makes love to him with his hand. He uses one finger, then two, and mixes fast straight thrusts with slow massage, fingers curled up to grind against Dean’s prostate. He keeps going until Dean’s well past panting and babbling praise. 

It feels so good he almost forgets about his cock, hanging neglected between his thighs, but then fingers wrap around that, too, and oh god, oh fuck, he’s going to die. His tombstone is going to read “death by sex god” and he can’t even make himself care.

The fingers inside him retreat, leaving him feeling empty, but a breath later he can feel something much bigger pressing against him and hears Cas’s breath quicken in anticipation. 

“Condom?” He manages to get out. He’s not a total moron after all, it seems.

Cas leans down to flip the open wrapper into Dean’s view, and Dean nods acceptance. Then he feels Cas’s cock pressing in without hesitation, filling him to the brim in one smooth stroke that is so freaking overwhelmingly _good_ that Dean buries his face in the bed and screams, his legs shaking with the effort of holding him up. 

Once things feel a little more manageable, he nods the go ahead and Cas pulls back and starts to thrust—though it isn’t until Dean twists around and snaps “Fuck me like you mean it!” that Cas really lets go and gives Dean the pounding he’d been hoping for. Somewhere along the way Dean shifts his knees a little and suddenly every thrust is sliding right over his prostate, nerves already hyper-sensitive from Cas’s fingers earlier. 

Dean’s never come untouched, but he suddenly wants to know if he can, so even though his cock is begging for attention he ignores it, focusing on the heat building up inside him instead, on his need, on the man behind him. Cas is doing this to him. Cas is fucking his brains out. Cas wants to touch him, knows exactly how to make him feel good, is ravaging him like there’s no freaking tomorrow. God, Cas _loves him_ , and ain’t that just a trip? He imagines Cas’s face as it must be at that moment, slack-jawed and glassy-eyed with pleasure, and that gets Dean so close he actually whimpers.

Abruptly Cas stiffens, fingers tightening their grip on Dean’s hips, yanking him back to thrust as deep as possible, and then he can feel Cas shuddering and pulsing within him, coming undone. “Dean,” Cas cries in that moment, and that _is_ a first, the first time anyone’s called his name at all, let alone in that tone of devotion and need, and Dean squeezes his eyes shut against the wall of emotions that want to take over at the realization.

In the panting, gasping aftermath, Cas’s hand slides down Dean’s body and wraps around his cock. He pumps at an uneven pace, with a grip a little looser than Dean normally likes, but even so it doesn’t take long before it’s Dean’s turn to cry Cas’s name, white striping his quilt as he comes, and comes, and fucking _comes_. 

Cleanup involves a quick trip to grab the throw blanket from the living room and a towel from the bathroom, and then Dean is once again resting with his face against Cas’s chest, only this time they’re both naked and sweaty and sated, sleep dragging them both relentlessly down.

-

This time when he wakes up with Cas in his arms, Dean leans down and kisses him awake, grinning with unrepentant delight even when Cas snarls something about it being “too early” and to “stop smiling so loud.” 

“Sweetheart, we have to go to work,” Dean says, between placing careful kisses along each of Cas’s grumpy frown lines. Cas grumbles, so Dean tries a different approach. “I have a moka pot; next best thing to professional espresso, you gotta try it.”

Cas blinks sleepily several times before apparently coming to a decision. He yanks Dean down without a word, then rolls them both until Cas is on top. “I have a better idea,” he says, sliding down Dean’s body beneath the covers, a man on a mission if Dean’s ever seen one. 

They both call in sick. 

**Author's Note:**

> PS: Like what you see? 18 or older? Come hang out on the [Profound Bond](https://discord.gg/profoundbond) Discord server with my friends and me! <3


End file.
